Shoot the Moon, that Poisonous Fruit
by Merrybeans
Summary: Loneliness, lust, love. As two of our favourite characters try to deal with these emotions, they find unexpected comfort in each other.


_A/N: This was written as a group-based personal challenge. It is slash-themed (there's your warning), but there is no real detail. Rating for safety._

_Dedication: For Lally and Kally, my partners in crime._

_Disclaimer: Not mine. The characters and setting belong to Tamora Pierce; the pairing was collectively thought up._

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**Shoot the Moon, that Poisonous Fruit.**

Faleron was in bed, alone. He had curled up into a loose ball beneath the covers; his toes were still freezing but they would have to remain that way because he didn't want to get out of bed to fetch any stockings.

The sleeping quarters of the palace were quiet tonight, which Faleron was surprised about. He knew there was a Midwinter party on and people should be returning to their beds about now.

He had nipped along to the ball (it would be rude not to put in an appearance, especially since his little sisters Joslyn and Faylinn were now at Court) but he had come away again as soon as he could. He usually enjoyed social get-togethers, but his chest was tight with missing someone he shouldn't miss and the ballroom simply made it more painful. It had been her domain. She had ruled the dancefloor and monopolised the young boys.

He wasn't really sure that being in bed alone had helped much. Now there was no distraction, and he could remember that one time she had snuck into his room at the palace to surprise him. His body ached for her.

There were noises now in the corridor outside his room. Someone was obviously coming to bed after having one too many cups of the rich wine. He could hear them stumbling about and muttering to themselves.

Then the footsteps stopped.

The next thing Faleron knew, the handle of his door was rattling. He peeked his head out of the covers and looked at his door in surprise. When he saw the handle jerk down, he sat up instantly. Someone really was trying to get into his room!

Whoever it was wasn't going anywhere. The door shook as they tried the handle again and again. They clearly thought Faleron was still out.

Grimly, the knight got out of bed and picked up his sword. His bare feet made no noise as he padded over to the door, and now he thanked his laziness that had stopped him from searching out footwear earlier.

At the door he could hear heavy breathing as fingers fumbled with the handle. Well, whoever was coming to steal from _him_ wouldn't get away with it.

Faleron reached for the key still in the lock and twisted it. At the click, the person on the other side stopped. Quickly- before the thief decided to make his getaway- Faleron jerked the door open.

To his surprise, the door swung back to reveal a rather grumpy looking young man. His clothes- although a little rumpled- were of relatively good quality. _Perhaps_, Fal thought, _he's a merchant's son and has snuck into the palace when he thought everyone would be celebrating_.

'Why ever did you lock your door?' the man exclaimed as soon as the offensive object had been opened.

Faleron blinked, and then wrinkled his nose. The smell of alcohol was thick and heady. _Brandy, not wine_, thought the knight_, and fine brandy at that. _There was something vaguely familiar about the young man's face, and Faleron decided he must work in the palace.

'Who _are_ you?' demanded the youth. 'What are you doing here?'

Before Faleron could reply, he had been knocked aside as the man threw himself into Faleron's bedchambers.

'These are my rooms,' Faleron said steadily, keeping hold of his sword in case there was any trouble.

'Where's Julliane?' he demanded, his eyes wildly searching Faleron's bedroom. Storming to the bed, he threw back the covers, clearly expecting to find a beautiful maiden hidden there. 'What have you done with her?'

This man was obviously hideously drunk, Faleron realised. Smiling a little (imagining how the fool's head would throb in the morning), he propped his sword up against the wall and went over to him.

'You've made a mistake,' he said, placing his hand on the drunken man's shoulder. _He must be about my age_, Faleron realised. 'These aren't Julliane's rooms. She's not been here.'

The man's shoulders sagged and his blonde hair flopped into his eyes. All the fight was suddenly gone from him and he let Faleron drag him to a chair by the low fire.

'She doesn't want me,' he moaned, flinging his head into his hands.

Faleron- not quite sure exactly who Julliane was- ignored him. If his Julliane was the newly-wed Julliane of Aili, she would do well _not_ to want him. She had married into a very respectable family; they would not be pleased if she was already sleeping around with merchant's sons.

Still, Fal knew all too well how crushing aches of the heart could be and he set to with making some tea that would help sober the young man up. Perhaps in a less inebriated state of mind he would see sense.

The man was whimpering to himself and muttering beneath his breath as he held his head between his knees, and Faleron shuffled around with herbs and water and stoked the fire. With the kettle over the heat, he rested back against the nearby desk, folded his arms over his chest, and silently watched the poor fool argue with himself.

When the tea was boiled, Faleron poured it into two mugs and pressed one into the man's hands. He didn't even look up, but started to recite names. Ducking close, Faleron realised they were all names of herbs.

'…feverfew, peppermint, valerian, passionflower, meadowsweet, willow, and chamomile for relaxation.'

In fact, they were all names of herbs that Faleron had put in the tea. Surprised, he guessed that his family must be herb traders.

As the mysterious young merchant began to drink the tea, his mumblings ceased. After ten minutes he was silent- but his eyes had also been closed for too long for Faleron's comfort: he didn't want the fool falling asleep here.

'Now then,' Faleron began loudly. 'What's this about Miss Julliane?'

He opened one bright blue eye, the pupil still a little dilated, and said, 'Do you really want to know?'

'It's better to talk about these things and get them off your chest.'

The man sighed and closed his eye again. 'She's beautiful. A Court lady.' His words were more coherent: the herbs must have done their work already. 'I probably shouldn't have gotten interfered with her, but I can't help myself.'

_Great_, thought Fal_, I've got an alcoholic, womanising herb-merchant's son sitting in my room at midnight. What a way to spend my Midwinter._

'She's beautiful,' the young man started again and Fal listened half-heartedly. 'Long hair, that you just want to tangle your hands in every time you see it.'

Faleron instantly thought of _her_ long hair, black as ebony. He treasured a wonderful memory of her out in a field behind King's Reach, laughing as her friend grabbed her hands and they swung in a wide circle together. Her hair had flown out behind her, trailing like a hopeful pennant.

'It must be so soft, I think,' said the young lover. 'Her hair must be so soft.'

Fal remembered wrapping his hands in her curls many nights after sweet lovemaking. How he would love the feel of the hair in his fingers and press his face into it.

'Her eyes are a beautiful blue. And I mean almost enough to rival the Contés. They're always happy eyes, too.'

_Oh yes_, Fal thought, _she had happy eyes_. She had the eyes of a child; a trait he'd never quite puzzled out. She had seen too much to remain naïve and yet she still carried that precious childlike innocence with her.

'And her skin… As soft as her hair. It's pale and creamy and just like that new porcelain they use to make girls' dolls.'

Many a time Faleron had ran his hands over her skin- skin as white as snow in winter, and barely touched by the sun in the height of summer- and thanked whatever Gods were responsible for this, however improper it was.

'She's always smiling, too. I don't think she knows what sadness or depression or death or famine or pain are… She's always smiling those ruby-red lips. Kissable lips; oh, _so kissable_.'

Kissable lips indeed. Faleron had hardly been able to restrain himself after the first time he tasted her. Her lips were as soft as her skin, her hair- and full, sliding over his with ease. Even when she didn't paint them they were as red and luscious as blood.

He remembered sharing a picnic with her one day. The rolls and chicken and eggs had been good but the best part had been the fruit, as far as he was concerned. She had loved the apples he had picked from the King's Reach orchard that morning and she had laughed and laughed when the juice ran over her lips and down her chin. He had not laughed; he had taken her face in his palms and languorously, tenderly licked the juices from her skin and her full, red lips. It had been the start of another afternoon of love-making and one where they very nearly got caught.

Faleron cleared his throat. 'It sounds like you love her.'

'No.' The youth's words were forceful. 'I don't love her. I _lust_ after her.'

Faleron reluctantly admitted to himself that the same was true for him. He was not in love with Kalasin. He had thought often of her, and his body ached for her, but he could live his life without her constantly by his side. Often at night he feverishly hoped she was well and missing him; his loneliness was a selfish daemon he couldn't control in the dark.

'I know the difference,' continued Faleron's guest. 'I love another.'

_Lucky you,_ thought the knight. _If only I could fall in love with a woman suitable for Mother and then everyone would be happy. _

'But she doesn't want me either.' His words were so sharp with bitterness- and he thumped his thighs with balled fists- that Faleron jumped. Recovering, the knight pulled a second chair over and sunk into it, plopping his chin into the heel of his hand.

'_She's_ gone off with that new fisher-bloke that's helping Onua with the ponies now Daine's not around. Although,' he grumbled, 'what a fisher is doing as a _pony-boy_ beats me.'

_His family must supply the Riders with their herbs,_ Faleron assumed.

'And I am doomed to continue moving from one Court bed to the next.'

Faleron snorted. 'You make it sound like a hardship. Many men would be envious of your… skill.'

The man glared. 'I wish I'd never started it.' Faleron raised his eyebrows in a surprised question; the man sighed. 'When I finally gathered the courage to confess my feelings to her – yes, I know, with all I've been through and I need courage for _that_ – she shot me down because I don't have the ability to commit. I don't take relationships seriously enough according to her, despite the fact that I've been her truest friend now for eight or nine years. _Women_.'

Faleron smiled wistfully. 'Trust me, they're impossible.'

'Don't you think I'd figured that one out for myself by now? But they're like an addiction; I can't keep away from them. I can go for months with little more than a drop of brandy and I don't touch those rough drugs they sell in the lower parts of the city but women…' He sighed. 'Like I said, I can't help myself.'

'They _do_ have beautiful bodies,' allowed Faleron, thinking again of the Princess and her young, fresh curves.

'Too damn right. Their bodies are so much more beautiful than men's.'

Fal pursed his lips. 'Not necessarily,' he said, thinking back to the communal bathing during his training days. 'Young men can have nice bodies too, all sculptured and hard. Old men or men that don't take care of themselves-' he shuddered- 'yes, _they_ don't have nice bodies but it's the same with women. When their thighs start to get wide and their breasts sag…'

'Then the pretty young maid's become a hag!' finished his guest, in a sing-song voice.

Fal shot him an odd look and, he simply said, 'Player blood.'

Faleron knew then that the alcohol _was_ still in his system as he had expected; no merchant would admit so openly to such mixed blood. Merchants were _always_ trying to act above themselves.

Apart from that, the man's pupils were still dilated and his odd word or two was slightly slurred. His tongue was amazingly free, too.

'I'm still not sure I completely believe you,' he was saying and Faleron cast his mind back to the conversation.

'It's true,' Faleron insisted.

The man sat up in his chair, looking suddenly very interested. 'You're a knight, aren't you? Don't worry, I make it my business to know people. Faleron, of King's Reach?'

Reluctantly, Fal nodded.

'I thought so as soon as that herbal tea kicked in and I could think semi-straight. Well, if you're a knight you _must_ be in good shape.'

Faleron nodded again, warily this time.

'Then you must be a fine example of these fine, sculptured young men you were talking of.'

'Are you asking me to strip?'

'No, don't be daft. Just your shirt.'

Faleron was glad suddenly that he hadn't changed into a full-length nightshirt when he got into bed.

'Why should I?' he demanded.

'To prove your argument! I will be the judge; I've seen enough women's bodies to know.' Faleron didn't budge and the man added, 'C'mon, it's only your shirt. I'm not going to believe you until you do.'

Faleron sighed. '_Fine_.' In one fluid movement, he yanked the shirt off over his head, baring his chest to the Midwinter air. The low flames in the nearby fire sent beautiful rippling shadows and warmth over his skin; skin that was not pale but as warm and golden as cinnamon, dappled with smooth white scars.

Despite the fire, it was cold, and his nipples hardened almost instantly, the airs on his arms and stomach standing upright.

His guest looked on in wonder and delight.

'Stand up,' he muttered, words clear from alcohol-slur, and Faleron did so, strangely compelled. 'You're right. Men _can_ have beautiful bodies.'

Standing up, the blonde man pulled his own fine shirt off, revealing muscles and a dusting of coarse blonde curls.

_A merchant's son… muscles…?_

Then it all fell into place. The familiar face, the herbs, the Player blood, the womanising--

'You're that Rider, aren't you?' he asked, his tone rather blunter than he had intended. He felt cheated that he had been led along for so long. 'The one quite high up- Evan, is it? Ivin?'

'Evin.' Evin nodded.

'You've _always_ got some Court lady in a state.'

Evin shrugged. 'I did tell you I couldn't help myself when it came to women.'

The knight watched the way the Rider's alcohol-fevered eyes took in his chest, his hard nipples, his flat stomach, his broad arms and asked very quietly, 'Just women?'

Evin's blue eyes jumped upwards to meet Faleron's. 'Until now.'

Faleron smiled gently, remembering his first, and waited for the Rider to scoot closer. His body was aching again- but it was no longer for his young Royal lover. He put a very careful hand on Evin's hip and let the Rider's fingers run gradually faster over his exposed skin. Goosebumps followed the dancing fingertips until Faleron was practically shivering.

Evin's kiss was unexpected, but joyfully welcomed. Almost instantly, their tongues were meeting and caressing each other. Their kisses took little time in reaching a hot desperation; they were, after all, experienced lovers in one way or another.

Faleron was still shocked, however, when Evin's scarred and calloused hand was thrust down his breeches. The knight moaned into his new lover's mouth and as they tumbled towards the bed, Faleron decided that there was no need to find love when there was lust this sinfully perfect.

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End file.
